The red face of Father Thomas went white, and his yellow teeth chattered. “A virgin’s curse,” he muttered, crossing himself. “Misfortune always follows, and it is sometimes death—yes, by St. Thomas, death. And you, you brought me here to do this wickedness, you dog, you galley slave!”
“Father,” broke in Ramiro, “you know I have warned you against it before at The Hague; sooner or later it always breaks up the nerves,” and he nodded towards the flagon of spirits. “Bread and water, Father, bread and water for forty days, that is what I prescribe, and——”
As he spoke the door was burst open, and two men rushed in, their eyes starting, their very beards bristling with terror.
“Come forth!” they cried.
“What has chanced?” screamed the priest.
“The great dyke has burst—hark, hark, hark! The floods are upon you, the mill will be swept away.”
God in Heaven—it was true! Now through the open doorway they heard the roar of waters, whose note Adrian had caught before, yes, and in the gloom appeared their foaming crest as they rushed through the great and ever-widening breach in the lofty dyke down upon the flooded lowland.
Father Thomas bounded through the door yelling, “The boat, the boat!” For a moment Ramiro thought, considering the situation, then he said:
“Fetch the Jufvrouw. No, not you, Adrian; she would die rather than come with you. You, Simon, and you, Meg. Swift, obey.”
They departed on their errand.